Third Star
by tapdancingapples
Summary: It took four months for Sherlock to admit they were friends. It took another four for John to admit he was in love. It took another two to find out Sherlock was dying. Third Star x Sherlock, oneshot, some smut.


Oh my god. You people have made me the happiest person alive by just actually _reading _my first fic. I decided that I should post one of my old oneshots and look what I found! Third Star x Sherlock. The two things that made me cry harder than ever before, nice. So as a thank you have a lot of angst and a little smut (first smut scene for me, any tips?) and uh, enjoy!

**Warning: Contains spoilers for Third Star.**

* * *

_Third Star_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliantly hopeless man. Overwhelmingly intelligent and always helping people (even if it was unintentionally since the crime often came first). He was harsh at the best of times and downright spiteful at the worst. They'd known each other for one year and seven months so far.

It took four long months for Sherlock to grudgingly admit that they were indeed friends (everything beforehand had been acquaintances or colleagues).

It took John four months after that to admit he was absolutely madly in love with the idiot.

It took another two months to find out Sherlock was slowly, but surely, dying.

Cancer. He'd had family die of cancer, a distant uncle of some sorts. He'd been fairly young at the time and could only remember seeing a bald man with too thin skin and sad eyes hooked up to a machine that at the time he didn't understand. It had been scary and he hadn't liked visiting except for the fact that his mother always said it would make Uncle really happy.

As a doctor he had seen cancer in progress. He'd been the man who would sit down with his patient and as gently as he could would break the news to them. Sometimes he hugged them; sometimes he just petted their back and spoke softly as if it would actually help. It always felt so terrible knowing that this one person would go through so much. It felt even worse when he had to tell them they had no real cure.

He knew all about these sorts of things. Sherlock wouldn't live past 30.

Sherlock had just turned 29.

It was one of the most excruciatingly painful things he had to go through. Sherlock seemed to be coping better but then again he always did have the uncanny ability to hide his feelings, to shield himself against a bitter and senseless world. Mrs Holmes was much the same. Strong, tall and proud. She was beautiful in all senses of the word however once she found out little "Sherly" had cancer she excused herself for a few long minutes. Mycroft certainly didn't cry but he looked lost, like a child who had just found out that it was really mum and dad putting gifts under the Christmas tree. Lestrade didn't seem to know what to do with himself anymore and John...

John couldn't stand it. He knew Sherlock in a way no one else did. He could see the way he would just fall silent and observe something previously meaningless like it was the only thing in the world. Sometimes during conversation he would fall just a little silent and his eyes would track downwards as if he'd thought of something sad, something that soon he wouldn't have. Sherlock hadn't cried yet but he looked tired and isolated even in a room full of things he loved.

And so then, somehow, the idea of the trip came about.

Barafundle Bay, a gorgeous place according to Mrs Holmes.

"I used to take the boys there when they were younger." She said and delicately folded her hands in her lap. "Sherlock used to explore the entire beach and collect all sorts of things. He liked to test how different consistencies of sand and water could preserve footprints before comparing the results to normal soil. Once, a day after we came back, I came home to find my favourite scarf in pieces because he'd tried sawing through it with a sharpened shell. Little experiments for a little Sherly."

She excused herself again after that.

At first he expected Sherlock to deny the idea, to say that he'd work until he died or something equally headstrong and depressing. It had only taken a soft touch on his shoulder for him to whisper his acceptance and let John hug him again.

They'd take Lestrade and Mike. Lestrade who had helped pick Sherlock up from the drugs, saved him from himself so many times, really couldn't save him now. As soon as he'd heard about the trip he said he'd go.

Mike, who probably should have hated Sherlock after the acerbic comment about his weight, had taken the news with a mollified nod and tight lips.

Everything was almost ready within a week.

Of course "almost ready" is as ready as you can be when someone you care for is dying.

* * *

The campfire was warm. The flickering flames licked brightly at the sky and a few embers drifted with the wind before hitting the sand and dying into a dark speck.

Lestrade was trying to read a manual for one of his appliances at home and was complaining bitterly about how three very important pages were missing. They smothered a smile as he scowled at the book like it held the hidden answers to the world. Somehow it all felt peaceful.

Sherlock's head was in his lap and he was very gently teasing out all the knots with his fingers. Apparently they'd all forgotten brushes (then again Mike was balding slightly, Lestrade had recently cut his hair and John only had to smooth his down) and Sherlock had suffered until John pulled him down and tugged at the ragged curls until they resembled something somewhat presentable and Sherlock seemed almost ready to purr.

Currently he could almost hear his partner's mind analysing some hidden problem. Those eyes (grey-blue-green, it all depended on the light) hadn't left his face for a good half hour, constantly roaming over his face when John wasn't looking and flickering away when he did.

"I'm going to swim out tomorrow and I won't be coming back."

John froze.

He understood. Of course he did. People did this. They couldn't take the fact that pain was taking their lives and destroying them so they took the most logical option. He'd expected this.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. It was like a hand slipping through his ribs, grasping his lungs and twisting until he could hardly breathe. He could only pick out certain words that Sherlock was saying. Pain, giving in, terrifying. It was beautifully said and thoroughly thought out. Almost poetic except for the fact that this was the man he loved talking about dying.

Both Lestrade and Mike gave definite no's.

John wanted to say yes but then again he was so selfishly human. He could help Sherlock through this, of _course_ he could. More drugs, more time.

Sherlock was perfectly frozen beneath his fingers, his eyes slowly closing to hide any emotion. "I apologise," he said, "I asked for too much."

It hurt even more when he saw the tears and betrayal as Sherlock fled into the tent.

* * *

The next hour passed slower than whatever he thought humanly possible. Silence reigned as they all sent unsteady glances at each other, trying to figure out what to say or think or feel. The waves were a constant susurrus in the background and the wind just a delicate hiss. Everything seemed still until a tiny, strangled whimper left the tent.

Shit. By now Sherlock would probably need his meds.

He left Mike and Lestrade with a single contained nod and pushed back the tent flap to crouch next to Sherlock.

The bloody idiot had bitten into the blanket covering him to stop the sounds leaving his mouth. Stubborn to the end he didn't want anyone to see him like this (hair matted with sweat, eyes darting around wildly, tears slipping out of the corner of his eyes). How long had he lain there in pain just trying to hide it?

He grabbed for their backpack and almost upended it when that familiar bag of various medications didn't want to be found. It must have fallen out while they were trekking their way up.

_God_, Sherlock must have realised when he looked and kept it to himself so they didn't go searching.

He only bothered to poke his head through the tent flaps. "You two, quickly, his meds bag must've fallen out when we were climbing."

They scrambled for their torches like they'd been possessed.

He retreated back into the tent and knelt next to Sherlock before pulling at the fabric still caught between his teeth.

"Sherlock," John whispered and the man looked at him pleadingly. "Come on. I've seen this a hundred times before. I'll do it again for you."

It took another tug at the blanket for Sherlock to let it go. When he did he automatically cried out a keening sound. It wasn't his normal, deep baritone but higher and laced with desperation. He whimpered harshly.

There were more tears on Sherlock's face now. He wiped them away quickly before resting his hands on his cheekbones and trying to smooth out the wrinkles as Sherlock's face contorted in barely contained pain.

He didn't count those tears.

"John, John -"

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm right here. It's John, yeah?

One of those pale hands clutched at his jumper and twisted it aggressively as he tried to fight the pain. Sherlock was shaking like a leaf in a breeze, his grip quickly loosening in favour for a more gentle and insistent hold before falling away completely.

He kissed his sweaty forehead in reassurance.

"Come on. They'll find it, you know they will. Lestrade must've picked up on Anderson's sniffer dog skills by now."

Sherlock chuckled weakly before groaning and partially arching his spine. "Please, John."

He wiped away some of the hair sticking to the detective's forehead and kissed it again. He was so fucking useless. One day into meeting Sherlock he'd killed a man for him. Over a year later and he could do absolutely nothing to stop this.

Another fit of paralytic pain had Sherlock scrambling to catch his breath, wildly touching at his throat to try and express what has happening, "Can't breathe, can't bre -"

He tilted Sherlock's head back a little as a coughing fit took him over.

Sherlock was right. Even on his death bed he was still right. His mind was being eroded by this constant ever present need for more help. His constant reliance on drugs made him sour, the need for a cane had made him screw up his face in an unsavoury manner, and the fact that John had to carry him had been pitiful. Sherlock had sullenly tucked his face into the crook of his neck and not spoken a single word except for the occasional burst of pain induced mewls.

The sounds of crashing feet and loud breathing had him cry out with relief. Lestrade threw the morphine at him before collapsing on the ground tiredly.

He uncapped the bottle as quickly as he could, "We've got it. C'mon."

"Please," Sherlock panted.

The speed at which Sherlock devoured his medicine and the way he had begged for more made him cringe. His head fell back onto the floor with a dull thump. His lips shone from where the medicine had spilled.

Please.

_Please, I can't take this pain anymore. Please make it go away. Please please please._

The meaning was not lost on him.

* * *

They rose early next morning. Sherlock was still tucked in his arms as the boys left the tent before sitting down and speaking in hushed whispers. He knew that Sherlock was feigning sleep but didn't bother calling him out on it. He'd lay here with Sherlock pressed against him for as long as he possibly could.

"John."

He relished the feeling of warm air hitting just below his collarbone.

"I -"

"I know, I'll let you."

Sherlock stiffened in his arms before relaxing and pushing John onto his back. He crawled up on shaky limbs before questioningly pressing his lips against John's, asking for permission to do more.

The kiss was bittersweet, all gentle give and take, nothing demanding or heated like what it sometimes was.

When they broke for air he pushed himself into a sitting position and Sherlock followed into his lap. They simply kissed for a few moments, moaning when the other did something new.

He let his hands roam down Sherlock's chest and under his shirt to caress him. Sherlock moaned despairingly when he brushed over a nipple and dropped his kisses down to the hollow of his throat. He clutched at John's shoulders when with the other hand he pulled his cock out and worked it slowly to hardness.

He could feel Sherlock becoming undone, the way he brought both of his arms around him as a way to ground himself and groaned breathlessly. He licked at the thin layer of sweat on Sherlock's neck before biting. Everything went tense as Sherlock moaned, "John, I -" and he sucked mercilessly at the little imprint of his teeth that he'd left.

Sherlock shuddered as he came, his hips rolling into John's hand before falling still except for the strong rise and fall of his chest.

He groped around for the little packet of tissues he'd left out somewhere last night before bringing one out and cleaning them up. Sherlock sagged against him and offered no assistance, instead electing to let John tuck him back into his pants and sprinkle wistful kisses all over his face.

* * *

Leaving the tent felt strange. Unknowingly they'd made a bubble of safety and warmth there. Outside the sky seemed too big and the sand too white. The world felt off kilter now. Mike and Lestrade had obviously retreated for the sake of their privacy and were at the opposite end of the beach. He gave them a half-hearted wave.

He grabbed at Sherlock's hand and silently led them closer to the shoreline.

"We should let them catch up." He whispered and Sherlock nodded.

He sat down and waited for Sherlock to join him. He was a little surprised at how easily Sherlock sank into his arms and went limp like a ragdoll. The delicate warmth which seeped through his jumper made him sad. The next time Sherlock would be in his arms he certainly wouldn't be warm. His body would be chilled, water covering him like a sheet, lips tinged blue, beautiful eyes glazed open.

That head of black curls tucked itself deeper into his elbow and he briefly squeezed his arms around Sherlock in reassurance.

"It will only hurt you more if I wait." Sherlock whispered. The sound was so soft he almost wanted to pretend he hadn't heard it. "If I leave now will you let me?"

For such a simple question the answer was surprisingly difficult. _Yes_ - I'm going to let you go and watch you swim out to your death. _No_ - I'm selfish and I want more time with you, even if it means putting you through more pain.

He had to force his answer out through gritted teeth.

"Yes."

It took effort getting Sherlock back onto his feet. His mouth constantly tightened in pain and at one point he groaned out a muted swear word in what sounded like French. His feet were unsteady as he hobbled towards the water and John could see how much he limped without his cane (John's old cane), even worse due to his fatigue. There was nothing psychosomatic about this, no quick and easy adrenaline rush cure to fool his brain into thinking all was well.

_Fuck this._

He pulled his mobile (still the same one he'd complimented Sherlock for deducing so much about) and threw it carelessly onto the sand. He violently toed his shoes of and threw his jumper somewhere in the same direction as his mobile before running after Sherlock and quickly interlacing their fingers. "You're not doing this alone."

Sherlock's stoic façade shattered like a broken glass, "Thank you."

The water was bitterly cold at their feet and John couldn't help but think that this was wrong.

He'd imagined Sherlock dying from something like a gunshot, a bomb, an angry crime syndicate. He'd imagined dying at Sherlock's side because it was John's _job_ to be there and protect him and if Sherlock died then he'd failed and he probably would too. The fact that this was so utterly different made it so heartbreaking.

The water had just begun to lap at their thighs when two more loud splashes sounded behind them.

"No." Sherlock said and he turned his head curiously towards him. "Lestrade can't swim well enough for the depth that we're going."

He yelled back at Mike to keep Lestrade back. The both of them called out broken apologies.

He looked back at Sherlock for an explanation. "That one wasn't a deduction. He forced me into a pub once. He ended up unbearably drunk and raved about how he went to the swimming centre to teach his son how to swim and almost ended up drowning himself."

John chuckled for a moment and Sherlock joined a second later. The water mercilessly reached their waists.

"I'll tease him about that when we get back."

Sherlock missed a step. "There won't be a 'we', John."

The admission was enough to make him stop too. Hearing Sherlock say it made it so much more real. It all seemed so false. Just a really bad dream that seemed to stretch on and on into the horizon, never ending in its brutality.

"I understand if you can't do this."

They were completely still now, face to face and shivering.

He didn't trust himself to speak. Sherlock was staring at him with an intensity he'd hardly seen before.

He answered by taking another step deeper into the water.

It seemed all too fast. One moment their feet was touching the loose sand, the next they were swimming.

By unspoken agreement they stopped. The water was deep and Sherlock was already having difficulties staying afloat, his mouth dipping into the just a little too constantly to be natural.

John was terrified of what was about to happen.

He reached out for Sherlock's face and messily stroked over it before planting a kiss on his lips. It tasted purely of salt however it summed up everything he was feeling.

Sherlock's hands were shaking again as he reached out and grabbed fistfuls of John's shirt.

"I'm scared too," he murmured and dragged his fingertips over Sherlock's face again. He thought he'd have years to memorise Sherlock; his cupid bow lips, endlessly curly hair, pale skin, sharp facial structure.

Sherlock leaned into each touch and his eyes scrunched shut. "I'd rather not be alone."

He knew how much the admission much have cost him and understood the deeper meaning. _I'm scared, please stay with me._ He tapped the skin near Sherlock's eyes until they opened. "I know." He whispered and kissed Sherlock again before letting go of his face. His arms floated neutrally next to him and Sherlock's grip shifted from his shirt to just above his elbows.

He pulled in three equally dark, gasping breaths before sparing one last glance at John and letting himself be pulled underwater.

The hands slipped down his arms until they rested on his wrists. He took one long gulp of air before sinking under the water too.

Sherlock's lips were parted in what looked like a gasp, perfect bubbles of air escaping every few moments. For a moment he stopped at how morbidly beautiful it was. The moment passed and he remembered what he was meant to do. _I can make this faster and easier for him. _He grasped Sherlock's shoulders and shook. One, a huge burst of bubbles greeted him. Two, Sherlock's hands griped at his forearms and more air hit him. Three, four, five, there was almost no air left to distract him from Sherlock's face. On the sixth shake Sherlock's hands went very tight and then let go.

He didn't need to shake him a seventh time.

His head burst through the water and he gasped for air. Breathing felt a little different now knowing that Sherlock wouldn't breathe the same air.

Looking down he could see the blurred form of Sherlock's body. He took another long breath before dipping under again and grabbing Sherlock's lifeless form and hugging it to himself on the surface.

Sherlock who had been so painfully alive and always bursting with energy, Sherlock who rarely ever slept but when he did preferred to do so in John's arms, Sherlock who he'd fallen desperately in love with without even knowing. Sherlock the only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock the friend, Sherlock the lover, Sherlock the sick, _Sherlock_.

He felt sick. The body felt so heavy in his arms, heavier than it had ever felt carrying him over uneven terrain on their trip here.

The water disappeared as quickly as it had rushed up to meet them and he tripped into the it, turning his body to absorb the brunt of the impact even now. He buried his head in those wet curls and cried.

Lestrade and Mike were there already, pulling the both of them back onto the shoreline, all of them staggering to a stop once they hit the sand.

He crawled over to the body and using shaking fingers gently closed Sherlock's eyes.

_There_. Now he could almost be sleeping.

* * *

End.

AN: I really hope I did this fic justice. Again you're welcome to point out any mistakes or give constructive criticism. I should soon be posting a multi-chaptered fic but I just want to make sure I've got a good deal of the plot done so if the plot bunny abandons me I'll be forced to write anyway :)


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